


White-Gems

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Cock Rings, Collars, Dom/sub, Dominance, Established Relationship, M/M, Master/Pet, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-25 01:14:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4941037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo returns to the forest, enamoured with its king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White-Gems

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Bilbo loves when Thranduil calls him "my pet" and Thranduil loves when Bilbo calls him "my king". +For Orgasm denial” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/9471.html?thread=20790783#t20790783).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The forest is much easier now, and he doesn’t go far into it—just enough to be hidden by the trees and touched by the wave of dizziness, the familiar light-headed fog that creeps inside him, only now it feels _good_ and doesn’t make him weary. He sits amidst towering, gnarled roots with one hand on his bag, Sting inside, and the anticipation beading on his skin.

He doesn’t strip until he hears the distant sounds of an elk’s hooves. Then he means to be ready, and he parts his jacket, hurriedly pulling his tunic over his head, and the mithril vest out from under. He pushes off everything, even his trousers and pants, and stuffs them all inside his bag, bulging though it makes it, to sit naked on the earth. It’s a touch cold, even at this warm time of year, but he knows that won’t be a problem long. He kneels with his big feet protecting his plump rear from the dirt and the grass tickling his ankles. He knows exactly who it is, but he’s still pleased when he sees he’s right. 

Thranduil cuts through the trees like a ray of pure sun, his elk leaping clear over the vines to land square before Bilbo’s tree, halting so suddenly that any other rider would pitch right over its antlers. Thranduil, of course, looks grand as ever, and merely rears to a stop, his hair flicking out before him to glimmer and beckon. The light in Mirkwood is always scarce, but it seems to find a way down to its fair king, and Thranduil glows around all his edges. His crown of oaken twine and flowers looks living. He’s easily the most beautiful thing that Bilbo’s ever seen, even more so now than the first time Bilbo glimpsed him upon his throne, and Bilbo, once again, is enthralled. 

As Thranduil dismounts, his back turning to Bilbo, a tiny flame of guilt invades Bilbo’s chest for sneaking out of Erebor to come here. The dwarves wouldn’t understand. Bilbo will return to them—he always does—but for all his friendship with the dwarves, he can’t help but be drawn to _elves_ , and Thranduil is the greatest temptation of all.

He strides to Bilbo on long legs beneath his silver robes, tall above yet more slender than Bilbo’s awkward limbs. Bilbo bows as low as he can, until his bangs are sweeping over the grass, and he mumbles, “ _My king_.” He knows that Thranduil enjoys the title and the show of submission.

When he lifts his eyes, Thranduil’s kneeling down before him, greeting in return, “My pet.” His deep voice runs through Bilbo like a song, wracking out another shiver of delight. He could be nothing else to such a creature, and he’s found, as seems to be the way with most wild adventures, that he enjoys the new game. If he ever does return to the Shire, he’ll never quite fit in with the other hobbits again, and they’d build gates just to bar him if they knew what he does now. 

Thranduil’s long fingers curl under his chin, and Bilbo lets himself be drawn back up to sitting. He still has to look up to see Thranduil’s handsome face, washed calm and perhaps amused. From the folds of his robes, Thranduil withdraws a silken collar, crafted by his people for this purpose. He brings it forward to hold against Bilbo’s throat, cool and soft. Bilbo exhales deeply against it, just to feel the bob of his breath strain in its new confines. Thranduil fastens the collar around the back of his neck with a silver clasp, carved in the shape of branches. It’s an exquisite piece that Bilbo would wear everywhere, if he could ever find the words to explain it to his dwarves.

When the collar’s set, Bilbo spreads his legs, knowing what comes next. Thranduil draws a second string of silk down his chest, pausing over the hump of his round stomach and rifling gently through the honey-coloured tufts between his legs, then straying gently along his thighs. Bilbo quivers in each movement. There’s something revenant, so _sensual_ , in the way that Thranduil touches him, so magical and divine. Sometimes he pretends that he’s paying for all he took from Thranduil’s house with his body, but in these moments he knows it could never be true: he’s the lucky one to have this. He’s being rewarded. He didn’t hand over the Arkenstone or speak to Thorin of sharing white jewels for this, but he’s forever glad he did. 

Finally, Thranduil wraps the tie around the base of Bilbo’s stout cock, tying it just tight enough to alter the colour, the rush of blood filling his skin. No words are required of him, no more than they would be of a dog or a pig, but Bilbo murmurs all the same, “Thank you, my king.” 

With a languid smirk, Thranduil pulls Bilbo into his lap, sideways, so that Bilbo’s legs drape over and tangle in Thranduil’s robes, and Bilbo can lean against Thranduil’s chest. Thranduil strokes him, first in his curls and then down his neck, along his shoulders, all over him—Thranduil plays with his body like he’s some exotic toy, musing idly, “How lovely you are, my pet. How _cute_.” Bilbo blushes and hides his face in Thranduil’s shoulder.

He’ll never have anything on the beauty of elves, but he’s glad Thranduil can enjoy him. He sometimes feels dreadfully small, fat, and hairy, even after all his time with worse dwarves, but Thranduil has different tastes than he’s given credit for. Bilbo nuzzles adoringly into his neck, breathing in the heady scent of his rich body. Thranduil smoothes over the hump of Bilbo’s rear as though expecting to find a hanging tail, and asks, “How are things in the mountain?”

“Lonely,” Bilbo sighs, with no irony for the name. It’s teaming with dwarves, being rebuilt in splendor, but Bilbo often longs to see _elves_ again, and even sometimes the rolling hills of the Shire. Sometimes, he wishes his quest had been with eagles to fly him from world to world. At least Mirkwood isn’t far, not for a hobbit that’s become well traveled and is a friend to Dale, and always, as Thranduil promised, a friend to these elves. Thranduil doesn’t ask anymore, and Bilbo doesn’t say it. Thranduil won’t be interested in the dwarves’ mining or hollowed tunnels. Thranduil merely pets him, relearning his body anew, until a firm arm is looped around his middle and he’s turned. 

Thranduil lays Bilbo down, just enough away from the roots of the tree that there’s nothing pressing into his back, and he can be easily arranged amidst the greenery and dirt. It’s somewhat warm, though the true heat is at his front, transferred from Thranduil’s touch. Thranduil leans over him, almost on all fours, light atop his legs and pinning his shorter arms. Thranduil’s golden-white hair falls all around them, blocking out Bilbo’s world, so that it’s only Thranduil’s beauty in his vision. It’s breathtaking. When Thranduil rocks once into him, Bilbo tries to keep his eyes open, but they flutter instead, overwhelmed: Thranduil feels so very _good_ and is so very good to him. And he wants Thranduil _so much_. He’s rolled into again, then again, their bodies dragging together, Bilbo’s exposed cock rubbed wantonly against Thranduil’s clothed stomach, though the pressure’s never enough for release. He knows his master won’t give it to him, not yet. It’s a test of his loyalty, of his obedience. Thranduil might think him unruly for his friendship with dwarves, but Bilbo is still a hobbit at heart, and he’s patient and well-trained and always intending to please. 

Thranduil grinds into him until Bilbo is squirming and begging lightly, trying not to speak but unable to stop his noises. His hands reach up to fist in Thranduil’s luxurious robes. He lifts his legs, spreading them as much as he can, and clings to Thranduil’s sides, shamelessly rutting against Thranduil’s perfect body and whimpering, moaning, whining, _pleading_ , “Please, please, my king, _take me_.”

Thranduil presses his forehead to Bilbo’s, his lips tantalizingly close. He doesn’t kiss Bilbo, and he turns away from Bilbo’s vain attempts, but he does purr over them, “Perhaps we should return to my home. You have proven loyal as an outdoor pet, even without your leash, but I would like to have this treasure at my feet while I sit upon my throne.”

Bilbo _trembles_ with want for it. He’s become debauched in his adventures and finds himself thirsty for that exhibitionism. He wouldn’t mind sitting at Thranduil’s feet, would like it even more if he were allowed to rest his head in Thranduil’s lap, and love it truly if he could suck his master’s cock. His mouth waters just from thinking of it, and he’s finally rewarded with a kiss, Thranduil’s long tongue slithering elegantly into his mouth. Thranduil has to fist a hand in his hair to hold him, guiding him through one kiss after another, until Bilbo’s breathless and wet and nearly crying for release. 

Then Thranduil withdraws. Bilbo realizes belatedly that he hasn’t answered. He promises, “I would like that, my king,” and is rewarded with a smile. 

Rising, Thranduil takes hold of Bilbo’s bag, and fits the forefinger of his other hand into Bilbo’s collar. He tugs Bilbo up by it and leads Bilbo forward, Bilbo hurrying on his short legs to follow. The bag is fastened to the elk’s rump, but Bilbo is lifted to its front. It’s always a little frightening to be on such a high creature, but Thranduil handles him well, and Bilbo trusts. Thranduil then climbs up behind him and scoops him closer, drawing him into a tight embrace. He’s held firm against Thranduil’s lap, where he tries not to squirm too much against the evident bulge that waits there. 

By the time they’ve ridden back together, Bilbo has tears in his eyes, and he’s finally allowed his release on the dais beneath his king’s throne, where he swears his loyalty and love forever more and receives a welcome kiss in return.


End file.
